Arid Dreams: Stories

By Duanwad Pimwana

“One of Thailand’s preeminent female writers . . . Each of her stories poses its own moral challenge, pleasurable and unsettling at once . . . phenomenal.” —NPR.org

In thirteen stories that investigate ordinary and working-class Thailand, characters aspire for more but remain suspended in routine. They bide their time, waiting for an extraordinary event to end their stasis. A politician’s wife imagines her life had her husband’s accident been fatal, a man on death row requests that a friend clear up a misunderstanding with a sex worker, and an elevator attendant feels himself wasting away while trapped, immobile, at his station all day.

With curious wit, this collection offers revelatory insight and subtle critique, exploring class, gender, and disenchantment in a changing country.

“Arid Dreams is stark, sly, and unsparingly brilliant. Here is a writer unafraid to pick up the scalpel of her prose and use it to cut to the bone. Each story is more compelling than the last, each combines dark humor with deeper truths about human desire and depravity. I couldn’t look away.” —Preti Taneja, author of We That Are Young

“Pimwana’s characters, whether they are truck drivers or farmers, doctors or prisoners, are realized with depth, affection, and a good degree of humor. The petty concerns of their daily lives—frustrated careers, infidelity, reconnecting with distant family—are hypnotically rendered in Pimwana’s telling. This is an exciting debut.” —Publishers Weekly

“A deep and thoughtful exploration of human psyches and the dreams of ordinary Thais in an ever-changing socio-economic environment.” —Bangkok Post

“An exacting look at the moments of joy and tragedy, of hope and desire.” —Independent Book Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781936932573

Book preview

ARID DREAMS

I’D WAITED TOO LONG TO COME BACK. THIS PLACE USED to be my dream vacation spot back when I was a student, but now it bore so little resemblance to its former self that I had to question my memory. There wasn’t a single room available to rent, no matter how good or terrible the location. On the beach the sun was so bright it hurt my eyes, and people, their skin reddish, whitish, had distributed themselves densely on the sand and in the water. The restaurants and bars were packed. The ocean breeze was stifled by the long line of umbrellas and nylon beach chairs that were squeezed together. There were some tents with rows of beds set up underneath and young female masseuses in smart uniforms stationed nearby, beckoning to tourists.

I forged ahead, stopping frequently to inquire about a place to stay. If I’d wanted to camp on the beach, there were still some tents available for rent, but as far as I could see, the areas where you could pitch them were far below my standards. Finding myself more and more disheartened, I felt the urge to hop back on the boat and return to the mainland. It was so crowded that even if I managed to find a place to stay … A vacation where you had to fight for every single thing? I was exhausted just thinking about it.

The crowd eventually started to thin out toward the end of the beach. The sand had given way to craggy rocks covered in algae. Seeing only a fishing village beyond, I stopped walking. The beach was beginning to turn into a marsh anyway: all black mud and red mangrove stilts. As I turned to head back, I suddenly came face-to-face with a short, dark-skinned man. He smiled, showing off a mouthful of white teeth, as if he were actually happy to see me.

You’re looking for a place to stay, right, hia? There aren’t any around here. You’ve got to go farther inland. The man pointed toward the fishing village. Come and have a look. He signaled, leading the way, but I hesitated because I’d already decided to go back to the mainland. You can have a look first. It’s only six hundred baht a night, unlimited water and electricity. There’s even a kitchen, in case you don’t feel like walking to the beachfront. Come! There’s only one room left.

I started to follow him, but stayed on my guard. I didn’t trust these shady-looking vendors on the beach. This one wasn’t wearing a shirt, only gray fisherman’s pants and dark blue flip-flops. Along the way, I took note of my surroundings: rows of homes built close together. We were quite far from the beach by this point, and there was still no sign of bungalows or other accommodations for rent. I got increasingly anxious and kept asking when we would arrive; we’d wandered some distance from anything remotely resembling a tourist area. The short man kept insisting, just a little farther, just a little farther, but we kept walking. I became even more alert. Eventually, I refused to continue walking because I thought we’d gone too far. When I stopped, he did, too.

Here we are. He’d stopped in front of a wooden house elevated waist-high. It had a large porch and looked like it had two or three bedrooms. Go right up. I’ll take you to see the rooms. He rinsed his feet with water from an earthen jar at the foot of the stairs before leading me into the house.

I felt uneasy. There was nothing to indicate that tourists could stay here; it felt more like I was visiting relatives in the country. You couldn’t hear the waves, there was no view, and the decor left much to be desired, but the room that he showed me looked tolerable. I wondered if I should give it a go for a night and head back tomorrow—what could be the harm in that? I felt like I could use a massage, so it probably wouldn’t hurt to get a room, walk back to the waterfront, and hire one of those girls for an hour or two. If I found a masseuse with skilled hands and a nice personality, I might even change my mind and extend my stay for a few more nights.

Signaling that the room was satisfactory, I agreed to stay for one night and paid in cash. The short man, who by the looks of things was the owner, handed me the keys and explained, There are two keys, sir. The little one is for the room. The big one is for the house—sometimes when we’re all out, we lock the front door, too. Please help yourself to anything in the house. Feel free to make yourself coffee and watch TV in the common area, but if you want to order food from the kitchen, you have to see if the cook’s in. She’s usually here in the afternoon … The bathroom’s this way. You have to walk through the kitchen here and go down the stairs at the back. There, that’s the bathroom. There’s one stall for the toilet and one for the shower. You can also shower on the little cement landing in front of the bathroom. I’ve installed a showerhead, do you see it? That’s it. Make yourself at home. But are you sure you’re just staying one night, so I’ll let other guests book for tomorrow?

Once he’d wrapped up the tour, the owner of the guesthouse left me alone. As I was walking back to my room, I heard him calling somebody named Jiew, who seemed to be inside the house. He had to shout several times before a response came from the room next to mine. The voice was groggy, as if the person had just woken up. I went in my room and shut the door. Out in the main area, the man continued sternly, Wake up already, Jiew. A guest has just arrived. There was a single yeah in reply from the adjoining room and then silence. The nagging from beyond the door didn’t relent: Come take care of the kitchen and bathroom. Dishes are piled up everywhere, and the hot water hasn’t been boiled.

I went through my bag and laid out my clothes. The voice outside my room was still barking orders to do this, that, and the other. It grated on my nerves, and my mood soured the longer I was forced to hear it. How rude! As a guest, I didn’t simply want a room but a relaxing environment. I bristled—how irritating that I’d ended up in a house with a couple that liked to argue. As that thought was going through my mind, yet another voice joined the fray, a little girl shouting outside the front door.

Pa, Pa, Pa, I came for my money.

The owner then started to haggle with the girl.

I quickly changed into a pair of shorts and a tank top. As I was leaving my room, the door next to mine opened. Naturally, I glanced in that direction: a woman was emerging from the room, her hair in such a mess that it obscured her face. She was wearing one of those old-fashioned kawgrachow tops in blue and a green-and-yellow floral sarong, which she proceeded to undo and rewrap while I had my back turned to lock my door. In the process, she folded it over the bottom of her blouse so that it was snug to her body. Her clothes thus adjusted, she headed toward the kitchen. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I can’t say anything about her face, but her waist, buttocks, and hips, over which the flimsy sarong was pulled tight, were ample in all the right places. I needed all my strength to tear my eyes away, and even then, I looked back again after a breath. I caught another glimpse of her as she walked through the kitchen doorway and disappeared. That last glimpse was crucial because it gave me a side view of her in motion. Her sleeveless blouse, which should normally balloon out, had been tucked in tight, and the bouncing of her chest revealed that the top was doing double duty as a blouse and a bra.

I walked out the front door, went down the steps, and passed, somewhat in a daze, the father and daughter, still bickering over money. First thing on my list was a relaxing massage: I had been planning to look for a young and, most importantly, attractive masseuse to help improve my spirits. But now, suddenly, this no longer interested me. I’d become bewitched by that kawgrachow top and floral sarong. It was like I’d come across a statue that had hypnotized me … Had I lost my mind? She was just a woman from the village. I started to wonder at myself. Earlier, when I’d been walking along the beach teeming with tourists, there were Thai and farang women as far as the eye could see, flaunting their bodies in tiny bathing suits, and I’d looked on with only mild amusement. How was it that a common local woman, albeit one with an incredible body, had been the one to catch my eye?

I somehow managed to find my way back to the beach despite being absorbed in my thoughts and not paying any attention to where I was going. There were several Western women sunbathing topless, wearing only their minuscule bikini bottoms and sunglasses. I stole several glances at them to see if I’d react the same way as I had with the local woman. I kept strolling along and browsing, but to no effect. It was as if I’d become indifferent to such things. Well, that wasn’t it, because even though I was a long way from the guesthouse, my mind kept wandering off, hell-bent on circling back there. When I thought about it, I had to laugh at myself for becoming so obsessed. I hadn’t even seen the woman’s face, but I supposed I’d been so taken with her because of her stunning figure, which was to my exact taste … I sighed, shaking my head at these wild thoughts, which were inevitably useless. The woman from the village already had a husband and a child. I shouldn’t stir up trouble during my vacation, especially considering how little time I had.

None of the masseuses were available when I arrived. When asked, each of them told me when she’d be free. I could wait, no problem. I decided that I’d choose the one I found most attractive. I’d have to wait at least an hour, so I killed time by going to rent a beach chair. That way I could recline under the shadow of the tent until it was my turn.

I got myself a bottle of beer and a bag of snacks. I could hear the masseuses chatting with one another in the twangy accents typical of country girls. In a way, it was cute to hear them speak, especially with their orange-and-white uniforms. These outfits were made of jersey and, for ease of movement, fit close to the body, not too baggy or skintight. I got the feeling that whoever owned this massage tent was probably pretty strict, as the uniforms were obviously designed with modesty in mind. They didn’t go very well with the beachside atmosphere. The stand-up collars and high necklines quashed any hopes of glimpsing a little flesh. But I was encouraged by their pants. Although full-length, they were stretchy, allowing the women’s figures to reveal themselves freely.

But the picture before my eyes caused me to feel two distinct things. I was sometimes aroused but at other times repulsed. I gathered for myself that to trigger sexual excitement, it wasn’t enough for a body to be revealed; that body had to be beautiful. An unattractive body, even on conspicuous display, would only leave you with a sense of its ugliness. I sighed, and my mind flitted back to the woman in the kawgrachow top without my being able to do a thing about it.

Something occurred to me then: today was the first time I’d seen a younger woman wearing a sarong and a kawgrachow top. It took me by surprise because, in my mind, this was how aunts and grandmothers dressed. Fat aunties, scrawny grandmas with their sagging, wrinkling skin, it didn’t matter: they all looked the same in their sarongs and kawgrachow tops. Those loose blouses, and dangling, drooping breasts, were for grandchildren, great-grandchildren even, to snuggle up against. That was what I was used to seeing. So I’d never considered how a sexy young woman might look in such a getup.

I sat back, sipping my beer with a smile, thinking I’d figured out why I found that young woman from the village so enticing. It must have been because of her sarong and kawgrachow top, which accentuated her already beautiful physique even more. Her mother and grandmother might have taught her to dress that way, wearing no bra underneath and wrapping her sarong so simply, but what about tucking in the blouse? Being able to see the contour of the waist was important. To assess the beauty of a woman’s hips and buttocks, you also had to look at the waist. That kind of top would normally be loose, baggy, but tucked in, it hugged her form, clearly revealing the size of her breasts. My god! I desperately wanted to get up and go back to the guesthouse. But better not. Why even bother? The most I could hope for was staring after someone else’s wife. And if I stayed in her presence too long, I’d probably lose control of myself. It was best to just let it go. Tonight, I would go hunting for a girl within my price range. It shouldn’t be too difficult. And then, I could beg her to put on a sarong and a kawgrachow top for me. That would have to suffice for the time being.

The masseuse I’d chosen seemed to be under thirty, whereas all the others looked over forty. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but her youth and her fine, fair skin somewhat compensated for it. Before starting, she asked if I was sore or tense in any particular area. I told her my legs could use some work because I’d walked such a long way, and I wanted her to focus on them and my feet. She smiled in response and followed my instructions. But not long into the session, I realized that I’d made a poor choice. She massaged like a weakling, so frail and delicate. I hardly felt a thing. All the massage managed to do was scratch a little at the nagging tension.

To distract myself, I tried to make conversation. She was nervous and shy at everything I asked, giggling bashfully before she answered each time. Significantly, her hands would stop working whenever she was replying to a question, and they would start up again only when she’d finished responding. It seemed to me like she was trying to put off work. I didn’t complain because I didn’t exactly pick her based on what I thought her massaging skills would be. But her laugh, it just wasn’t pleasant, and she always felt the need to laugh before saying anything. In the end, I chose to remain silent because I couldn’t stand that laugh. She was obviously a timid, naive girl who knew nothing about the art of seduction.

Annoyed, I decided to close my eyes, letting her continue the massage just to pass the time. In my hopeless fantasy, I was secretly thinking that if my masseuse were that woman from the village, this right here would have been heaven. Even just imagining it, I was beaming.

I was finished with the massage at four p.m. and went for a swim in the ocean for about fifteen minutes before heading back to the guesthouse. On the way back, I started to come up with a plan for the next day. I thought of a woman I’d met last year who worked at a bar on a little beach. We’d had a nice time together. Tomorrow, I would go across to the mainland and pay her

Reviews for Arid Dreams

[boredgames · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

sharp, violent, atmospheric and moody and humid stories about toxic masculinity and the labours of desire.